


Lake

by yeaka



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M, Other, POV Second Person, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:21:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23607475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: The party looks for a place to camp.
Relationships: Dorian Pavus/Reader, Inquisitor/Dorian Pavus
Comments: 4
Kudos: 22





	Lake

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Dragon Age or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

The party’s growing tired—you can feel it; even Dorian’s beginning to drag his feet, and Cassandra and Varric have fallen back all together, too busy bickering to bother with the quest. At this point, you know you won’t make it before nightfall anyway. It’s just a matter of when and where to pitch the tent. Your legs trudge forward all on their own, hoping to log just those few more steps—every one taken today is a small relief for tomorrow. Just a few paces ahead, Dorian takes a sudden left, trailing off through the trees. 

You follow, mostly to get out of earshot of Varric and Cassandra’s growing debate, and perhaps a little because Dorian has that certain way of walking that seems to make his hips sway more than necessary. That’s no complaint. Even through the thick layers of his trousers and the overlaying tunic, he has a spectacular rear end. It’s easy to become entranced by that view, to wander out after it, down a small slope and onto a rocky shore—the sound of rushing water magnifies tenfold when you emerge through the foliage. You’ve found a small stream, dipping off a higher ledge to create a waterfall just tall enough to wash under. The pool at the base fans out enough for four people, but you make no move to call the others. Dorian doesn’t either. He strolls around the edge of the shallow basin, hands falling to his belt. You half suspect he dons that stance on purpose, just to draw attention there. It works. You eye the jut of his hips as he turns to grin. 

“This might be a good place to set up for the night,” he muses, with that lilting note to his voice that makes everything sound suspiciously like _flirting_. You tell yourself that’s just his way, but you can still feel your cheeks heating. He tilts his head, slightly to the side and up—a hint of pride, like he knows _exactly_ how handsome he is and how deeply you’ve fallen under his spell. “We could have a proper wash before we set out again tomorrow... Maker knows you need it.”

Even the insults come out in a sultry purr. Or maybe you just hear what you want to. The quirk at the corner of his lips suggests that he’s not truly put off by your smell at all. You volley back, not particularly clever, “I could say the same of you.” He chuckles. You amend, “Perhaps we should both take the chance for a bath.”

One of Dorian’s hands lifts to play with his collar. It traces down his low neckline, slowly drawing across that dark skin that looks so very good in the fading light. The reflection of the water dances over him, adding to the spectacle—he practically glows in places, jewelry and buckles glinting, as though he wasn’t already an exquisite, expensive catch. Somehow, you have the feeling he’d look just as valuable _naked_ , and certainly twice as charming. If he were, you wouldn’t stand a chance. 

He slowly murmurs, “You’d like that, wouldn’t you.” It’s not even a question. He takes a small step closer, then another, and a part of you thinks that maybe you should run, because his eyes are ravenous. Except your hunger’s even greater. “I can only imagine how badly you’d like to watch me strip down for it, peeling away one piece of armour at a time...”

He’s close enough now for your pulse to race. You have to fight not to show your reaction too plainly; that’s part of the game. You suspect he knows anyway, just how greatly he affects you. _Tempts_ you. Dorian Pavus has quickly become your biggest weakness. 

“Is that what you want, Inquisitor? To pitch our tent for the others, then sneak down here to the water, and sit back while I expose myself bit by aching bit...?” Another step puts him right in your orbit—you can almost taste his breath, and it doesn’t stink like it should. You’ve both been on the road long enough to _need_ the bath, and yet, it would be far more pleasure than purpose. “You want to have me all to yourself, I suppose... completely bare... drifting out into the water... you know, I don’t think it’s quite deep enough to hide that one spot your eyes keep going to...”

That isn’t fair. You stare at his gorgeous face more than his crotch. Most days. His eyes crinkle, reaching the mole at his cheek, when he purrs, “Perhaps you even want to help me wash. I could use another pair of warm hands, rubbing at all those hard to reach places...”

His lashes flutter halfway down. His gaze graces your closed mouth. Dorian tilts that tiny bit closer, and all you’d have to do is press half an inch forward to feel the brush of his mustache against your upper lip. You’re read for that plunge.

But Cassandra stomps through the trees like a rabid mabari and insists, “Inquisitor! We should find a place to make camp. If I have to listen to one more—”

Varric’s beside her a heartbeat later, chortling his response, one you barely hear. All that really matters is that Dorian’s wandered away, still fully dressed, and you realize in crushing defeat that it won’t be the night you get to see that perfect ass gloriously bare.


End file.
